


The Sanguine Prophet

by weakzen



Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Dark Comedy, Gen, Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-02 02:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15787017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weakzen/pseuds/weakzen
Summary: Aloth's first assassination attempt does not go as planned, in more than one way.





	The Sanguine Prophet

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Aloth's initial conversation after leaving Port Maje, if anti-Leaden Key
> 
> Written for Pillars Prompt Weekly #54 re: how Aloth multiclassed into a Rogue

In extremely small doses, the venom of the palmsling snake thinned the blood and inhibited the formation of clots. In large doses, it ruptured blood cells and corroded arteries and veins, spreading trauma through the body with every successive pump of the heart. It attacked organs and bones as it circulated, softening them to be more easily digestible. The palmsling's prey died quickly, fatally hemorrhaging not far from where bitten, their flesh slowly dissolving from the inside-out.

The finger-sized phial he was currently carrying in his satchel contained enough of its venom to condemn a man to that fate twenty times over, or so Aloth had been told.

As he crept down the cloister, he hid himself in the shadow of the roof and columns he passed, his shoulder nearly skimming the wall as he avoided the areas of illuminated tile. He moved on the balls of his feet with each step, shifting his weight lightly and quietly. The scarf looped over his head and across his mouth muffled his breathing as well, leaving only the noise of frogs and chirping crickets to indicate anything stirred in the night.

Fireflies drifted lazily through the abundant flora of the temple's courtyard. Nocturnal flowers opened wide and yearningly in the moonlight. And the moons themselves, both swollen full, hung aloft in a star-splashed sky and the glassy reflection of a pond below.

If Aloth were anywhere else, he would have called the sight beautiful. He would have stopped and passed under the arcade to walk along the gravel paths. He would have meandered hours away winding through that expansive garden, savoring every sight and smell and sound.

As it were, though, all he could muster for its spectacle was a sneering glare.

He glanced away and hurried on, rounding a corner that lead away from the courtyard and down another arcade. He made a right, then a left, descending stone steps and traversing another short walkway until, at last, he reached the locked door.

Kneeling in front of it, he slid two picks from inside his bracer and slipped them into the lock. As he worked the tumblers, a smile ghosted his lips. He'd never been properly appreciative to her at the time, when she'd insisted that he learn how to pick basic locks, at least, if they were going to delve into ruins together. He was grateful now, though, for that lesson. For so many others.

For her.

An ache of fondness rolled through his chest and, not for the first time, he wished she were here with him too.

The sentiment faded quickly though, when the lock popped and the hinges shrieked. The door swung inward, creaking and shuddering under its weight, until it hit the wall with a rattling clang. He froze, panic lancing white-hot through his core. His shoulders drew tightly about his neck as he reached for his grimoire and strained to hear anything above the pounding of his own heart.

After a long and tense minute, only the distant wail of a loon acknowledged him.

He forced himself to exhale, then to take a few steadying breaths before he pushed himself up from the tile with trembling hands. The hinges needed attention before he could proceed—he couldn't risk that racket again and he couldn't leave the door open, either.

Twisting his satchel to the front of his body, he fumbled through it until his fingers reluctantly closed around one of his more prized possessions. As he opened the small bottle, he gave its contents a final whiff and couldn't help the resigned, sighing exhale that followed. That scent wouldn't be easy to find outside Aedyr—and even he didn't know when he would visit home again.

At least, he rationalized, while he coated his fingers in his hair oil and rubbed it into the iron, the waste of it could serve as a lesson to be better prepared in the future. In his haste to examine the lock when he'd scouted the temple, he'd neglected to give the hinges the same consideration. He'd gotten lucky this time, that he still maintained the habit of permanently storing his belongings in his bags in case he needed to leave quickly. Even so, he would still have to hope no one noticed the scent of rainwood tomorrow morning. They might overlook the improved condition of the hinges, but he doubted they'd ignore a strange smell.

Uncertainty coiled in his stomach. He didn't like leaving all these variables up to chance, but he supposed there was nothing to do for it now. If he didn't seize this opportunity tonight, then he'd have to wait one more month. And, given how this past month had made him feel, he didn't know if he could bear another.

Finishing his effort, he tucked the nearly-empty bottle away and wiped his hands clean on his trousers. He gave the door a few tentative tugs and, once he was satisfied it wouldn't betray him again, he stepped through the opening and quietly shut it behind him.

Inside, he squinted in concentration then called forth a small flame in his palm to illuminate the windowless room. Linen vestments swayed softly on their racks and cast long, spinning shadows up the wall. Bronzed ceremonial objects glowed warmly from their places on floor-to-ceiling shelves. A round table sat in the middle of everything, covered in a row of knives that followed the curve of its edge all the way around. And in the center of their circle, above them— _always_ above them—lie _his_ knife, in a display case of glass and crushed velvet. 

Aloth strode towards it and snapped it open, wrapping his fingers around an ornamental hilt carved with symbols and inlaid with centuries of dried blood. He tucked the sheath between his arm and torso and pulled the blade free, holding it up to his face to examine it. As his eyes roamed the rippling folds of metal, something quiet reminded him that it wasn't too late to just leave. He didn't have to do this. 

But… even as that reminder spoke, something louder insisted that he did.

Because, if he didn't, then how many more people would this knife's owner kill? How many more children wouldn't reach their fifth year because the sanguine prophet demanded their blood to water that sickening, odious garden?

Aloth's hand squeezed the knife until his knuckles turned white. He swallowed around the dry, hard lump in his throat and slowly shook his head. He couldn't leave. He wouldn't. Not after what he'd seen. Not after what he knew of the Leaden Key's involvement here.

Not after how many years he'd unknowingly spent _aiding_ them in creating horrors like this.

He hadn't directly contributed the situation here, he knew, but he still bore responsibility for it. He owed these people their freedom and any help he could provide them to that end, even if that meant resorting to underhanded tactics.

Even if that meant killing someone.

The flame in his hand guttered out as he closed a fist around it. Then, when he opened his hand again, a sphere of ghostfire popped out to float near him. In its eerie light, he donned a pair of leather gloves and unstopped the phial. As he carefully smeared drops of venom across the edge of the blade, his thoughts unwittingly traveled back to the morning after the last full moon, to the sound of desperate, choking screams and the guttural, insistent justifications shouted over them.

His mouth pressed into a hard line. He understood his risk of being caught increased the longer he tarried, but Aloth still applied the venom slowly and methodically, layer by layer, letting each coating dry fully before the next, until the phial dribbled empty at last and his work was done. He gingerly removed his venom-soaked glove, turning it inside out before disposing of it, the phial, and the other glove inside a sack tucked within his satchel. He sheathed the knife, returned it to its case, closed the lid, then glanced around to verify everything was exactly as he'd found it. Nodding to himself in conformation, he snuffed the light between his fingers and exited the room, re-locking the now acquiescently silent door behind him.

Then, as dawn grasped at the horizon, he fled the temple as quickly and quietly as he'd arrived.

 

\---

 

It wouldn't be noon for hours, but already the cicadas buzzed incessantly and the air sweltered.

Aloth, at least, had some fleeting relief from the sun, in a patch of shadow cast by a thickly-leafed palm. Most of the villagers in the garden below weren't so fortunate, and instead attempted to alleviate the heat with wicker fans. Of all of them gathered here this morning, only the prophet was truly sheltered from the elements, in a lasting shade provided by a canopy of white canvas atop the dais.

Only the prophet could lead all of them to true shelter as well, Aloth garnered, as the man gesticulated and lectured the crowd in thick Vailian. While Aloth knelt and listened, his nails dug into his palms. He fought to keep his expression blank and his gaze cast submissively into the dirt. He needed to be patient—and he needed to remember to act his part. Cydrel was a proper, respectable guest, after all. Here all the way from Aedyr too, humbling seeking guidance in an effort to reach true salvation.

Even so, he felt his lip curling in disgust again as his eyes wandered to a particular patch of soil nestled between clusters of vibrant, orange lilies. The stain was gone, but he could still see it there. Her too, crumpled facedown in the flowers. He stared at the spot unblinkingly as the sermon droned on, until the prophet and the insects faded into indistinct humming, until his eyes watered and his jaw ached from clenching it.

No one had said anything, when the acolytes picked up and carried the child away. No one had protested when the prophet squatted down beside her mother, not to minister comfort, but to coldly slice open her arms with the exact same implement that had killed her child. No one had dared look at the woman either, while she bled there mutely, curled into the dirt where her daughter fell, not when the prophet rose above them all, towering as he leveled his gaze against at each and every witness.

No one had stood up that day. No one had ever stood up to him, the blood-splattered culmination of Thaos' influence in this small part of the world.

Not until today.

A hand landed on his shoulder and Aloth flinched to attention, turning to see an acolyte gesturing toward the prophet. He stood, wincing as feeling returned to his legs, then he shuffled toward the center of the dais. The old man patted the cushion next to him and Aloth— _Cydrel_ —knelt on it, pressing his palms together as he bowed deeply. The gesture was returned, albeit shallower and more hastily, as though the man held more respect for notion of formality than he did for the actual individual receiving it.

He spoke then, in rapid, confident Vailian, vacillating his attention between Cydrel and the crowd, his voice gradually increasing in pitch and cadence. Smiling mirthlessly, Aloth only understood every third word, but he understood enough. His fingertips dug nervously into his thighs and a knot slowly tightened in his stomach. Then panic spiked through him, raw and electric and confirming, as the man removed his knife from its sheath and presented it to Cydrel on flat palms.

His eyes widened as he glanced from the blade up to the prophet’s wrinkled, expectant visage. His gaze snapped back and forth between the two a few times. For a moment, all he could do was gape in response, his mouth wavering open while his heart thundered in his chest. Guest's rights? Guest's honor? Why hadn't this come up last month? He hadn't planned for this, for the man to actually deign _his_ knife fitting for the use of a commoner, and a foreign one at that. But, as he withered beneath the man's increasingly intense stare, Aloth realized what he needed to do.

Bowing deeply, so deeply his hair ties clanked against the ground and his forehead almost touched the dais, he closed his eyes and summoned forth his best Vailian to issue an apology.

He was sorry.

He was not worthy of first blood.

He would shame himself eternally if he tainted the blade and body of a mighty servant of god with his own weak and still unmarred flesh.

Then he begged for forgiveness.

After an uncomfortably long and worrying moment of silence, he felt the prophet's hand fall on his shoulder to bid him upwards. Cydrel sat up, letting out a long, shuddering—and not entirely feigned—sigh. His back and shoulders were stiff and he kept his gaze fixed firmly downward as he apologized to the man again.

It, too, wasn't entirely feigned.

Chuckling softly, the prophet lifted Cydrel's chin upward with two fingers and nodded, seemingly pleased. Once more, the old man slowly rose to tower above everybody else. He turned to face the villagers and stretched his arm outward, flattening his hand and spreading his fingers widely. He held that position for a long moment, his heavily-scarred limb trembling with the effort, then he rotated his arm and made a fist.

And, with no further hesitation, he sliced himself open with three successive, parallel gashes.

Blood immediately ran down his arm in rivulets and spattered onto the ground below the dais. He grunted and squeezed his fist repeatedly, encouraging the flow. The sudden tang of copper made Aloth mildly nauseous. Or maybe it was the anticipation. Or the worry that had plagued him ever since he purchased the phial. In theory, the venom should have remained potent, even when dried. But, it wasn't as though he'd ever attempted this before, or knew anyone with experience in such proclivities. The local libraries certainly had no texts on the topic. And the chemist who reluctantly sold the venom to him had been of no help either, only emphasizing its danger and strongly encouraging a regimen of leeching instead.

Aloth pressed his lips together grimly. Perhaps he should have tested it on something first.

Before he could dwell on his mistake, however, the prophet spun and beckoned him upwards with the bloodied tip of his knife. Aloth hesitated, cringing inwardly, but Cydrel bowed stiffly and reluctantly obeyed. He walked to the edge of the dais, where the man deftly flipped the knife, caught it by the blade, and offered it to his guest once more. The confidence and determination that had filled Aloth when he'd snatched the knife in the darkness of night was nowhere to be found by the light of day.

His fingers slowly curled around the hilt once more. It was warm from the prophet's touch. Aloth's face was warm too, uncomfortably so. His heart pounded wildly in his chest and the knife quivered in his grasp. His thoughts raced desperately, searching for another graceful delay or an acceptable excuse, but they found nothing. He didn't have his grimoire, either. And he doubted he could run fast enough to make it out of the courtyard before somebody caught him.

Perhaps— Perhaps the venom wasn't working after all, and it would be okay if he made one small incision. A tiny slice. Or, perhaps he could pretend to trip, and lose the knife in the pond. No, that wouldn't work. It was too far away. He needed to think of _something_ , though.

The prophet's eyes narrowed beneath his drooping, sun-mottled brow. His lips pulled into a disapproving frown.

He growled Cydrel's name, then roughly grabbed Aloth's free arm and yanked it parallel to the ground. He nodded once at the knife. Then at the exposed flesh. Then he bent Cydrel's hand back painfully for emphasis.

Fresh panic jolted through him. Why wasn't it working? He'd used the entire phial! How was the man still standing? And, for that matter, how had he ever thought himself _clever_ for this plan?! Sickness roiled in Aloth's stomach. His skin thrummed unpleasantly. He felt lightheaded and dizzy, almost faint—

_Faint._

He let the knife clatter to the ground, then buckled his legs to follow it.

As Cydrel collapsed, the prophet fell with him. A communal gasp sounded from the crowd when they both crashed into the dais. Immediately, his wrist stung and Aloth knew he'd landed on it poorly, but he didn't dare move or open his eyes. Atop him, the old man spat a litany of curses, then pushed himself up, carelessly jabbing his hands and weight into the flesh beneath him while Aloth fought to remain still. The man made a noise of derision, then Aloth heard the scuff of sandals and the metallic draw of a blade as it was picked up from the ground.

Right.

If the man hadn't offered any mercy to a trauma-shocked mother, then why would he care at all about someone who'd merely fainted?

He tensed as the prophet's hand circled around his wrist again. The grasp was sticky and Aloth tried not to shudder as he felt the other man's blood start to trickle down his own arm. The old man dragged him a short distance, grunting with the effort, then released his limb. It fell over the edge of the dais, ready to water the garden.

If he rolled over, he could fall too. Then he could still try running away. Or he could startle awake and plead sickness. Or cowardice. None of those options would truly stop anything, though. At this point, if a good way out this mess still existed, then Aloth couldn't see it. All he could do now was wait to feel the sting of the knife as it finally bit into his own flesh.

But… did escaping that fate even matter? His plan seemed to have failed spectacularly. And now he'd possibly ruined his cover identity as well.

Around him, a soft breeze ruffled his hair and the cicadas continued their ceaseless drone.

…Was he not even worthy of offering his blood anymore? Had he insulted their hospitality by passing out? Or— Had he already been cut, and just not felt it? The blade had seemed _awfully_ sharp. No, if he'd been cut, then surely he would have felt his own blood. So… what was taking so long? Why hadn't he been cut yet?

What was wrong?

Dread settled his stomach, heavy and uncomfortable. Something was wrong. He couldn't hear the villagers or the prophet anymore. He couldn't hear anything but the insects and a steady patter of drips. He swallowed softly, then chanced cracking his eyes open to take a peek, hoping that no one would notice.

He needn't have worried.

From the limited angle he had on the crowd, he could tell they were looking toward the dais, but not at him. And they weren't just looking. They were staring. In wide-eyed horror. One man turned away. Another covered his mouth with both of his hands.

Then a woman screamed and the crowd erupted with her.

Shouting and more screaming and the slap of sandals against gravel all echoed across the courtyard. Aloth's hair whipped back and forth as several people ran by him. In the chaos, all he could discern from the noise were fleeting snippets of prayer cried out to many gods by many different voices. As the clamor around him intensified, he opened his eyes fully and slowly turned to the center of the dais.

He immediately wished he hadn't.

A few feet away, the prophet knelt spread-legged, his back arched and his head tilted toward the sky. His eyes were dark pools of crimson weeping ribbons of blood down his face. It oozed from his nose and ears and mouth too, staining his skin red as it streaked down his body, down his arms, down the blade, down to the ground to pool around him. Convulsions racked his torso and pulled his sopping vestment taut then loose with a sickening, rhythmic squish. Stringy bubbles foamed and popped between his lips—and Aloth realized the man was choking on his own blood.

This… wasn't what he'd wanted. He just… the man needed to die, yes. But Aloth had wanted him to die without suspicion, in the exact same manner he'd condemned so many others. Not like… _this_.

Aloth tried to sit up, but when he put his arm behind himself, it slid out from under him. He fell back into hot wetness. His eyes widened then he scrambled backwards in a panic, slipping and falling several more times as he tried to gain traction. He turned over and struggled to his knees, crawling away from the puddle as he gasped heavily. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to take deep breathes against the sickness rising his throat.

It didn't help that he could taste the blood in the air, acrid and metallic. The smell coated his tongue and nostrils. Somehow, the courtyard reeked of it more than it had month ago. Or maybe it only seemed that way because he was… _soaking_ in it. He exhaled through gritted teeth and tried not to think of the gore wetting his hair or the stickiness coating his arms or the gunk imbedded under his fingernails. Vile as it made him feel, none of that was important, not truly. Right now, the only thing that mattered was that he'd achieved what he set out to do, even if he hadn't accomplished it in the manner he would have preferred.

The prophet was dead. The people were free of his tyranny and his bloodletting. And the Leaden Key's stranglehold here had finally been ended.

A faint smile pulled at his lips. He wanted a long, hot bath when he got back to his room. Though, he doubted he'd ever be able to fully clean himself of what he'd done today. That too, didn't matter. Somebody needed to do something to stop this— _he_ had needed to do something. And, dirtying his hands, literally and metaphorically, well, Aloth could live with that, knowing the village would finally be allowed to prosper as a result. Now, all he needed to do was make sure that knife was cleaned too, before… 

He craned his head to the side and felt the world drop out from beneath him.

No, they—

They didn't have to do this anymore. He'd stopped it. He'd— The man was gone! Why were they still cutting themselves open?!

Aloth's stomach sank as he watched in stunned and growing horror.

…What had he just done?


End file.
